The Last Death of Jack Harbin Read Free

can’t blame her any more than she blames herself.

    Back home I make a call to the office where Marybeth works and ask to speak to her supervisor. I’d like to tell her what happened to Bob myself, but I don’t think it ought to be done on the phone, and she should be told right away. She works as a secretary for some research outfit associated with Texas A&M. The man I talk to sounds a little muddle-headed, but he says he’ll break the news to her. I tell him to have her call me if she needs anything.
    To settle myself down, I spend some time looking at my Wolf Kahn pastel. If anybody had told me when I was a boy that I would end up with a fine art collection, I would have thought they were crazy. But my wife, Jeanne, grew up with a mother who loved art, and when we were married Jeanne started buying a few pieces, and she dragged me into it. I ended up enjoying it almost as much as she did. Since she died, the pictures we bought together have meant even more to me. I’ve even bought a couple of new pieces that I think she would have liked.
    After a while I make the telephone call I’ve been putting off, to make an appointment with a surgeon at Texas Orthopedic Hospital in Houston. Rodell hit the nail on the head this morning when he asked when I was going to have my knee fixed. I’ve been hobbling around ever since one of my heifers accidentally knocked me down and stepped on it. On my last visit, my doc said, “You’re going to have to let somebody go in there and put it to rights. Within a few months, you’ll be good as new.” Months. I don’t like the sound of that.
    And then there’s the question of who’s going to take me to the hospital in Houston and bring me back. Loretta will insist, and I’d as soon ride in a car with Jack Harbin at the wheel as Loretta.
    The cheerful receptionist makes me an appointment for a couple of weeks off. She apologizes for not being able to fit me in sooner, but later is better than sooner as far as I’m concerned.
    Zelda rounds the corner from wherever she’s been napping and fixes me with a resentful eye as she meows her way to her dish. “That’s two of us feeling sorry for ourselves,” I tell her.

Loretta has scheduled me to stay with Jack on Wednesday. I drop by her house on my way, to pick up a bag of her cinnamon rolls.
    There are two beefy motorcycles parked in Jack’s driveway alongside a giant SUV. At the curb sits an iridescent red pickup with flames painted on the side and plastered with bumper stickers. My favorite says, Back off! I flunked anger management class .
    The Harbin house is nothing much to look at—a one-story rectangle on concrete piers with vinyl siding, a metal roof, and aluminum windows. A wheelchair ramp leads up to the front door.
    I hear voices from around back, and in the backyard I find Jack surrounded by his buddies. Walter Dunn and the other man who showed up at Jack’s on Monday are there along with another couple of men, all sprawled in plastic lawn chairs on the concrete patio.
    Dunn jumps up to shake hands. “Mornin’ Mr. Craddock. You in line to spend some time with Jack today?” There’s a sweet smell of marijuana in the air. Seems early for that sort of thing.
    â€œLooking forward to it.” I squeeze Jack’s shoulder. “Hope that’s okay with you.”
    â€œI can take it if you can.” Jack cranes his head in my direction, his nose working. “Do I smell Loretta’s cinnamon rolls?”
    â€œYou sure do. She sent over a couple dozen.” I open the bag and thrust a roll into Jack’s hand. He takes a big bite. I hand the bag to Dunn, who takes one and passes it on.
    â€œSomebody get Mr. Craddock a cup of coffee,” Jack says.
    Dunn says, “You asking, or ordering?”
    Jack snickers. “Just get the damn coffee.”
    Smirking, Dunn heads for the back door.
    â€œTake a seat, Mr.